


matter of time

by sate



Category: The Gray House, Дом в котором - Мариам Петросян | The House in Which - Mariam Petrosyan
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 08:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20150971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sate/pseuds/sate
Summary: Twenty years later, Sphinx finally has the words to answer some of Smoker's questions. It's more of an outpouring than anything, but Smoker has gotten better at listening.Or: Smoker's father accomplishes what he sets out to do with a few unintended consequences.





	matter of time

The cellphone on his nightstand vibrates for the fourth time in as many minutes, the screen casting a dull blue glow around his otherwise dark bedroom. Smoker stares at the ceiling, scrubs at his face and sighs, resigned. He reaches over and swipes the green ‘answer’ button across the screen.

“Yeah?”

“Hey buddy. Did I wake you up?” His father always sounds so friendly and hesitant when he calls. Timid, like he knows his presence is unwelcome. 

“I was awake,” Smoker says. 

“Oh. Good.” There’s an awkward pause. “How have you been? Getting ready for the next show?”

“It’s all set up,” Smoker says, rolling onto his side. He reaches down to reposition one of his legs when it doesn’t cooperate. “I’ll be there on opening night. Are you coming?”

“Yeah, actually. I was planning on it. Really looking forward to it.”

Smoker wonders if his father knows he can hear every single unspoken word as clearly as though he was screaming. He holds the phone against his ear with his shoulder and fumbles around the nightstand for his cigarettes and lighter.

As he lights up, he can hear the frown on his father’s face.

“You’re not smoking, are you?”

He is thirty-six years old, but somehow these conversations still make him feel like a child. 

“Nope,” he says, watching the smoke billow from his mouth as he answers. “Are you bringing Sphinx?”

“Oh, uh. Yeah, that’s part of why I called.”

There it is.

“You come to all my shows together, it’s not like you have to ask.”

“No, not about that. I mean -” Another pause. “You know, the kid finally moved into his own apartment. Just last week.”

The Kid. Smoker tries not to think about him. Scrawny blind boy with unkempt black hair halfway down his back. Perpetually covered in an awful red rash that never went away, worsened by scratch marks where he had itched with too-long fingernails. Smoker has only met him twice, and it was enough. The sight of him made his skin crawl.

“Yeah, I heard. That’s great news.”

Another meaningful pause. Sometimes Smoker feels like he never left the Fourth.

“... Well. It’s been hard on Sphinx. You know, he still has this idea -”

“I know what Sphinx thinks, Dad. I don’t want to hear about it. He’s sick in the head.”

Ash from the cigarette falls on the sheets. Agitated, Smoker flicks it away. 

“He’s been through a lot,” his father says, “But he never comes out and says it, so I can’t talk to him about it. I’m worried about him.”

It dawns on Smoker that a request is coming. He closes his eyes and smokes, just waiting for it.

“So I was thinking, maybe uh. You two could head up to the cabin for a weekend. There’s already beer in the fridge and a few bottles of wine. Spend some time with him. You could use a vacation, too, I bet. It would be good for you.”

Bullshit, Smoker does not say. His father acts too much like a wounded animal as it is.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Really?” His father sounds hopeful, happy, relieved, surprised. Smoker tries to ignore the tired twist in his gut.

“That’s what I said.”

“Wow. That’s great. Okay, yeah. I’ll uh. Tell you what, I’ll stock it up with some groceries Friday morning. You can invite him at the show. Any requests?”

“Lucky Strikes.”

“Eric.”

“Alright. I’ll leave it to you.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love y-”

Smoker hangs up the phone and reaches for his wheelchair.

-

The gallery is a white-walled series of rooms located behind glass doors. It's surprisingly crowded inside, but it doesn’t matter. Even with his prosthetics covered, Sphinx stands out in a crowd. He is at least a half-head taller than the surrounding patrons, and that half-head is a perfectly hairless dome. 

Despite the despondent conversation with his father, Smoker is happy to see him.

“Smoker,” says Sphinx, with his customary crooked grin. 

“Hey, welcome.”

His dad is standing next to Sphinx, surveying the crowd.

“Big turnout. Are you happy?”

“Yeah.” 

There is a short, tense pause. Sphinx is carefully looking away and standing a half-step further back than he needs to, trying to subtly give them space. It’s a thoughtful but useless gesture.

“Anywho,” Smoker’s dad announces a little too loudly, “I’ll let you two catch up. I haven’t seen a few of these since they were still in progress, huh? Can’t wait.”

And just like that, he’s legging it off through the crowd. 

“He really hasn’t been able to stop talking about this show,” Sphinx says, like he’s apologizing on his behalf. “You look good, by the way. Creative success treating you well?”

Smoker rolls his eyes at that. He can’t say the same for Sphinx, who looks haggard and gaunt and exhausted - not unlike the very first time they met.

“It’s fine. I’m lucky to get paid for making things, I try to remember that. I get less and less comfortable with stretching my soul over a canvas, though.”

Sphinx smiles. His smiles really do light up the room, halfway between childish and angelic. It’s no wonder he always gets what he wants.

“No one here has any idea what they’re talking about,” he offers.

“Yeah, I take solace in that.”

Smoker wheels around so that he is side-to-side with Sphinx, and they can hang back and survey the guests milling around the gallery. It’s usually like this: people walk past the painting he’d agonized over for weeks to gaze admiringly at the one that sprouted effortlessly from his brush tips. They talk about depth, and pain, and joy. That’s art, he supposes.

“I have to go perform my role, but after that, want to go grab a drink somewhere?”

“Sure,” says Sphinx. “I’d like that.”

-

They make small talk over the first round of beer and burn through two cigarettes each. Sphinx has gotten better at light conversation over the years, while Smoker has gotten worse. Silence between them is rarely awkward, though - plenty of history to fill the gaps. 

Smoker finally steels himself enough to bring it up.

“So. Empty nest caught up to you yet?”

Sphinx’s expression falters, but only for a moment. “You know. It’s an adjustment.”

His voice sounds so strained that Smoker almost winces. He regrets asking.

“I bet,” he says quickly, and then, “Hey, I was going to bounce up to my dad’s cabin this weekend just to get away for a little. Why don’t you come with? Nothing fancy. Build a fire, play cards. Whatever.”

“Oh,” says Sphinx, looking disoriented. “Uh. That’s generous of you, Smoker. I don’t want to intrude -”

“No way, I wouldn’t mind having a friend along. And Black is so surly, he’s not always my companion of choice. Come as a favor to me, if nothing else. Please?”

Smoker waves down the bartender for another round of drinks as Sphinx says, “A change of scenery would be nice.”

-

Friday morning comes with an unseasonable cold snap and an early snow. It makes getting out of bed more of an unpleasant chore than it already is, but Smoker pushes through it. Sphinx picks him up at his house. He drives a beat up old car he bought for cheap and had the gearbox customized for ease of use with his prosthetics. Smoker never learned to drive, and is a bit jealous of the freedom it might have afforded him, but really, he has no one but himself to blame for that.

It’s two hours out to the cabin, which has belonged to Smoker’s family for three generations. The road there is winding and mountainous and mostly deserted, with the exception of sparse towns or travellers’ oases sprung up around gas stations. The usually green countryside is covered in a blanket of white. They don’t talk very much.

The building is old and made of wood, dark with age. The exception is the wheelchair ramp next to the stairway up to the porch, which his father built himself when Smoker was fourteen. It’s a little steep, but Sphinx pushes him up it, their breath visible in the air. 

The whole cabin, actually, is a quiet homage to updating the antiquated past to make space for those who could not navigate it. The threshold has a long wedge of wood leading up to it to avoid violent jostling when rolling over it. The furniture is sparse and spaced out strategically so that a wheeler can navigate independently. The table in the kitchen, designed to seat four, has only three chairs around it. It’s cold inside.

The doorways are still narrow, so that Smoker has to grab onto the frame and pull himself through instead of having his hands on his wheels. If he enters at an angle his wheels will catch and he’ll have to back out and try again. The doorframe at wheel and footplate level bear myriad reminders of this, divots scratched into the wood and paint stripped away. Smoker is a bit touched, actually, that his father hasn’t repainted.

As promised, the house is well-stocked with food and alcohol. Smoker brought his own cigarettes. 

“You can have the master,” he says to Sphinx as he balances his duffle on his lap. “It’s easier for me to get into the other bed.” 

“I’m flattered,” Sphinx says with a grin. 

They take a few minutes to get settled in their respective rooms, and by the time Smoker wheels back out to the living area, Sphinx is already crouched before the fireplace.

“Damn. Smoker, help me with this match, would you?”

It takes time, but they get a fire roaring. It chases the chill out of the house straightaway. Smoker hovers his hands over it, letting it thaw his frozen fingers. Sphinx leans in with his eyes closed to soothe his frost-nipped nose. 

Smoker makes a plate of sandwiches and asks Sphinx for his preference - wine or beer. When Sphinx says wine, Smoker discovers that there are only coffee mugs left in the cabin, and so they drink out of those, inelegant but functional.

They sit on the floor in front of the hearth, Sphinx cross-legged and straight-backed, Smoker out of his wheelchair with his legs carefully arranged around him. They light cigarettes and play a few lazy rounds of poker, then war.

They’re three-quarters through the wine when they take a break. At Smoker’s instruction, Sphinx pushes the coffee table to the wall with his knees and then shoves the couch forward until it’s a mere foot from the fireplace. They both climb onto it. Sphinx takes off his shoes and lets the fire warm his bare feet. Smoker basks in the warmth overall, and pulls a blanket over both of their laps.

Both of them are thinking it: What this would be like with everyone from the Fourth. The whole pack. The one that Sphinx left behind, the one that Smoker never quite fit into. The commotion, the chaos, the camaraderie. Noble and Jackal might have been fighting. Maybe Lary would whine. Humpback would scribble poetry in a notebook, Tubby would coo contentedly. Alexander would vanish and reappear, meeting needs before anyone even knew they existed. Black would read a book in the recliner by the window. Blind would sit silently on the floor on the side of the couch, soaking it all in, comfortable and present. 

Almost comically, both of them sigh at the same time.

Blind lingers in Smoker’s mind, almost like Sphinx has formed a net around him and trapped him there, a ghost looming over their heads.

“Tell me about it,” Smoker says, finally ready. He hears Sphinx take a breath, like he’s been both waiting for those words and dreading for them to come.

“I can’t sleep,” Sphinx begin, then stops. Then, again, breathes in, “I can’t sleep because I hear him shuffling in the hallway even though he’s not there. I’ll hear a clinking in the kitchen, or a tapping in his room, and I’ll go rush to make sure everything is okay. Of course everything is okay. He’s not there anymore.

“I woke up once from a nap and I could smell him, I mean, _everywhere._ You know how he smells - maybe you don’t. Like clay and dirt and sweat. His hair especially, it holds in the smell, so if he moves a certain way when he’s near you it’s all you can smell. It was right there.

“I went to visit him every night for three days in a row when he moved out. Like a mad man. I have a spare key, he knows about it and everything, I’m not - you know, I don’t want to be controlling. That’s not my intention. But every time I unlock the door I freeze for a minute. I start shaking, and my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest, because I’m _sure_ I’m going to find him there. Dead. Hanging, or bled out, you know? Not even ‘I’m worried about this’ - just a certainty. He’s already dead on the other side of the door, and I’m going to find him there, and it’s going to be my fault because I failed him.”

The Sphinx here and now is shaking, too. When he stops talking, his teeth begin to chatter. Smoker takes the blanket and pulls it up to his neck, then, after a moment’s hesitation, puts his arm around him. It’s not something he would usually do, but Sphinx is cutting such a pathetic figure right now that all Smoker wants to do is comfort him.

He lights a cigarette and holds it out to Sphinx, who takes it directly into his mouth, the way he used to do when Blind offered him something, forgetting his limbs.

“Of course, he’s not dead. Not yet, anyway. I go in and look around and eventually find him. He likes to sit on the floor by the window, like a cat - in the warm spot left by the sun. He has audio books with this player that he can use by touch, all the labels are in braille. I learned to read some by sight, since I can’t touch it. He’s much better than me though, obviously.”

Sphinx is rambling the way a man lost in the desert for three days drinks water. Smoker realizes how lonely he must have been.

“And I wonder, ‘Are you happy?’ ‘did I do right by you this time?’ ‘would another you see this you and approve, or at least understand why I chose what I did?’ ‘do you forgive me?’ - but I can’t ask him those questions, because even though it is him, it’s not, and it wouldn’t be fair. I think maybe I pinned too much on him after all, and maybe he feels it and doesn’t understand it. I think I scare him sometimes, and he’s so used to it that he’s learned to lie to me-”

“Sphinx,” Smoker interrupts gently, squeezing his shoulders, “Every kid learns to lie to their parent sometimes. It’s okay.”

Sphinx pauses to catch his breath for a moment, shutting his eyes. He taps his cigarette on the saucer they’ve been using on an ashtray, perched on the hearth. 

“It’s just. I saw the way they hurt us. The parents who left us at the House. The grown-ups who were supposed to help. I never wanted to be that way, and I wanted to protect him from it this time around, but I can’t help but wonder if I, too…”

“I think that’s the point, though,” Smoker says, feeling a little defeated. “You just do your best with what you’ve got to work with, and that’s it. It’s not your fault that Blind turned out like he did. It wasn’t your job to fix him. And taking care of this new kid, it’s good of you, but it’s not going to change what happened.”

Sphinx gives Smoker a _look_, the kind Smoker hasn’t seen in a long time, the kind that says, _after all this, you’re still so stupid_. Which pisses Smoker off, because he’s doing his best here, and it’s no more his fault than Sphinx’s that Blind is dead, or vanished, or whatever the fuck Sphinx thinks happened to him.

Smoker almost retracts his arm, but Sphinx looks away and doesn’t say anything. Smoker’s sympathy is rekindled anew.

“You really believe it’s him,” Smoker says, softly.

“Think about it, Smoker. I mean actually think, for once.”

“Christ, you’re such an asshole.”

Sphinx laughs. “Yeah. Some things never change, huh?”

Smoker rakes a hand through his hair, “I really can’t handle things like this. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You know more than you think,” Sphinx says, and it might be the kindest words anyone has ever spoken to him. “Your art. It tells stories that would be profound to even the most seasoned of us. Or do you think I just come to your shows out of sympathy?”

He had, in fact, thought precisely that. Smoker tries not to feel too sentimental, but he’s failing.

Sphinx sighs. “Everything changes, everything is still the same. I wanted to be a kinder person, to make up for what I did in the House.”

“I think you’re kind,” Smoker says, and is surprised to find that he means it. “Everyone makes mistakes. Especially as kids. We’re just humans. But, I mean - you went to college to get a degree specifically to help people who went through what you and your friends did. That’s pretty good, you know?”

“And, I mean, whether he is who you say he is or not, you still took a person out of a bad situation and gave them opportunities they wouldn’t have had otherwise. You spared him a lot of pain. I think that counts for something.”

Smoker steels himself, waiting for Sphinx to mock him. When he doesn’t, he continues, “And it makes sense that you’re afraid of losing him. You lost so many friends already. We both did.”

“You’re weirdly insightful sometimes,” Sphinx admits. Smoker pours the last of the wine into their mismatched coffee mugs and, after some effort, readjusts himself enough to add a log to the fire.

“What’s weird about it?” Smoker asks, only playing at being annoyed. Sphinx laughs.

“Thanks, Smoker.”

Neither of them manage to finish their wine before Sphinx falls asleep. It’s surprising how quickly he goes, lucid and responding one moment, out the next. His head is resting on top of Smoker’s, which is uncomfortable until Smoker succumbs and lets his head drop down to Sphinx’s shoulder. The guy must really have been tired.

The warmth of the fire and sleepy haze of alcohol paired with Sphinx’s slow, even breathing is enough to lull Smoker to sleep. 

-

Something rouses Smoker in the middle of the night. It’s completely dark outside and the fire has died down to barely-glowing embers. He and Sphinx have melted from their upright position on the couch to flopped down on the seat cushions. Sphinx is is half on top of him, face buried in his chest, and Smoker’s mouth is pressed to his forehead.

Smoker remembers what Sphinx was saying, about the way Blind smelled. He breathes in deeply, nose to Sphinx’s skin. He smells clean, mostly, a little bit like sweat and a lot like smoke. Smoker purses his lips, just barely, to kiss Sphinx’s skin, and hopes that he can be happy one day.

-

When he wakes up, he is alone on the couch and the first gray lights of dawn are seeping through the windows. He can smell something cooking in the kitchen, and the radio is on, belting out some 80s top hit. He sits up groggily, flattening his hair down with both hands, and barely manages to crawl into his wheelchair without faceplanting onto the floor.

Sphinx is standing at the stove, demonstrating his impressive innovation as he cooks with a combination of his prosthetics and mouth. Smoker realizes he has never seen Sphinx cook before, but it makes sense that he would have learned after all this time.

He watches quietly, and Sphinx starts a bit when he finally notices him, then laughs. 

“Good morning. Figured I’d make breakfast.”

Sphinx really is charming, Smoker acknowledges for the thousandth time. He’s frying up eggs and sausage, and Smoker realizes that he’s feeling ravenous.

“Thanks,” he says, “Need help?”

“Almost done. Go sit.”

Vaguely, Smoker remembers waking up in the middle of the night and pressing a kiss to Sphinx’s forehead. He blushes.

“Yeah, okay.” He wheels up to the empty fourth spot at the kitchen table and nods lazily to the radio.

They talk about music while they eat. Sphinx is obsessed with Led Zeppelin, and has been for as long as Smoker has known him. After awhile, Smoker notices that Sphinx keeps looking at his phone, stealing glances here and there whenever there is a lull in conversation, or when Smoker is chewing his food. He catches on quickly.

“Why don’t you give him a call? Check on him. That’s fine to do.”

Sphinx looks at him as though he’s the most brilliant man on earth, mouth agape.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll just…” He stands up quickly, not even halfway through his breakfast, and trots into the adjacent room. Smoker sighs, begrudgingly affectionate, and keeps eating.

He can make out Sphinx’s side of the conversation, muffled, over the radio.

_“Hey. Morning. Did I wake -? Oh, good. … Yeah? That’s great. I’m just out of town for the weekend, so… …. Okay. Well, I’ll stop by on my way home. Monday. Yeah. … Great, see you then. … I miss you too. Okay. Sounds good. Bye.”_

When he returns to the table, Sphinx is trying to hide a huge, relieved grin. Smoker, in turn, tries not to smile.

“Thanks,” says Sphinx. They finish breakfast together.

It snowed heavily overnight, so going outside is out of the question. Smoker is secretly relieved, because while the nearby forest path is comprised of tamped down dirt, it is still not especially pleasant to wheel over.

They start another fire and break out a board game this time, but they lose interest halfway through and talk about nothing. The rude lady at the convenience store who makes a sour face whenever Smoker wheels through, the awkward stutters when people try to shake Sphinx’s hand. This politician or that, a coworker, an art vendor, a collection of poetry.

They decide to try and make mulled wine, but the spice selection in the cabin is limited and there is no citrus to be seen, so mostly what they end up with is hot wine with cinnamon added. They drink it anyway. It makes Smoker’s chest feel warm.

Sphinx is the one who, giddy from boredom, suggests they build a pillow fort. They pull the bedding out of both bedrooms and an extra set from the closet and set out to rearrange the living room.

They use the clock and a statue on the mantle to keep the sheets in place so the fire remains the focal point of the inside. Smoker’s wheelchair is eventually sacrificed as one of the support beams, and the mattress from the guest room serves as flooring so that he can crawl in relative comfort.

Sphinx manages to find a canvas bag in the kitchen, which he fills with food and drinks and deposits in the tent. Finally, he brings the last the mulled wine, hugging the mugs precariously to his chest. They finish it off, add a log to the fire, and flop down on the mattress together, soaking up warmth and grinning at the ceiling of their masterpiece.

“Cozy,” Sphinx says, with a laugh in his voice. Smoker gets the idea that this is the Sphinx from a long time ago - the exceptionally good one, of whom Black was so bitterly jealous. He turns his head to look at his profile.

Crooked nose, green eyes, wide grin. Playful, strong, confident. Where Smoker expects to feel envy in himself, he feels a tug at his heart instead. He blushes and forces his gaze back to the tent’s canopy.

“Yeah,” Smoker agrees.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, and then, unprompted, Sphinx starts talking again. He tells Smoker about Elk, the nick that Smoker had only ever seen written on the walls in hidden places. He tells him about the summer with Wolf and Blind, how Elk would take them out to the countryside and build tents on the roof with them. He tells him about the weight of Elk’s hands, the weight of his heart, how loved he could make you feel in a world where adults didn’t do that. Smoker feels like Sphinx is baring his soul.

He tells Smoker about the way Blind worshipped Elk. He tells Smoker about how he met Blind. He tells Smoker that, for all he loved Elk, he think Elk was the cruelest person he ever knew, that his mistakes were too costly to be forgiven, that ‘it was an accident’ didn’t cut it.

The story takes shape in Smoker’s head, fills in the blanks from last night’s conversation about the boy and Blind. 

Sphinx tells Smoker that Elk is dead, and his voice catches for a moment. He swallows hard.  
Smoker feels the question on his tongue - _How did he die? When?_ but he holds it there, lets it dissolve back into his mind. He has at least that much sense.

“You really did lose a lot,” he says instead, gentle.

Sphinx laughs, and Smoker watches his eyes glimmer wetly. He turns over onto his side, careful not to let his legs tangle, and looks at Sphinx earnestly.

“Sorry,” Sphinx says, “I really don’t like to talk about this. It feels wrong.”

“Everything in your life can’t be a guarded secret, Sphinx. You’ll lose your mind.”

“Is that what my problem is?” Sphinx asks with a wry grin. 

“Not the only one,” Smoker huffs, and tugs a pillow over to rest his head on it. Then he makes a face, and looks over his shoulder, regretfully, at his wheelchair, still serving as a critical structural component of the tent.

“I have to piss.”

“Ah boy,” Sphinx says, following his gaze. Then he perks up a little. “No, I got it. I can carry you there, it’s not too far.”

Smoker gives Sphinx’s prosthetics a skeptical look. Sphinx rolls his eyes and climbs to his knees, backing out of the tent.

“You can just hold onto my neck. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re kidding,” Smoker said flatly.

“I mean, if you _really_ want to lay our creation to waste so soon after it came into existence in this harsh world…”

“God. Fine. Hang on.” Smoker crawls his way to the edge of the mattress, where Sphinx is kneeling in wait. 

“Are you sure you can lift me? I’m not as light as I was in high school.”

“What do you take me for, Smoker? I’m a man of my word. Come on. Get a good grip.”

Smoker spares his wheelchair one last look before reaching up and winding his arms around Sphinx’s neck. He realizes almost immediately that there will be no allowance for personal space, and leans in even closer, pressing his chest against Sphinx’s and hanging on tight.

Miraculously, Sphinx manages to stand. One of his prosthetics presses into Smoker’s back, keeping him close so he doesn’t throw them off balance. 

It’s a short trip down the hallway, but Smoker feels his cheeks flush all the same. Sphinx’s chest and shoulders are strong and hard against him, and the way his breathing hitches, just a little, from the effort of carrying him, plays against his ear in a way that makes him shiver. Thankfully, Sphinx is too busy exerting himself to notice, and after a few more steps, Smoker is safely deposited on the closed lid of the toilet. 

“There you go. Got it from there?”

“I think I can manage.”

“Call me when you’re ready,” Sphinx says, and shuts the door behind him with his foot.

Actually, taking things from there poses a whole new set of challenges, but Smoker is not about to call Sphinx until he is ready to go back. He still has his pride, and he does, in fact, manage. The sink is blessedly within arms’ reach, so he can wash his hands without transferring.

The trip back to the tent goes about the same. Sphinx stumbles as he kneels back down to lower Smoker onto the mattress, and they flop down together, side by side, and laugh. Sphinx is a little bit winded.

“Maybe next time I’ll just get the wheelchair,” Smoker offers.

“No way. That went flawlessly. I can’t believe you doubted me.”

“I doubted my own arms,” Smoker says. 

“I dunno, you had a pretty good grip, there,” Sphinx says, leaning in like he’s going to bunt their foreheads together. He freezes halfway, though, as if realizing he’s acting out of habit where he shouldn’t.

Smoker, so eager for this spell of camaraderie to remain intact, finishes where Sphinx left off, touching his forehead to Sphinx’s and letting their noses bump for good measure.

Sphinx remains frozen, suddenly looking so uncertain it makes Smoker panic. Bad move? Bad call? Did he fuck up? He fucked up. Trying to hold onto something that wasn’t supposed to stay. Not the first time, and certainly not the last.

“Smoker,” Sphinx begins, and Smoker can already hear the awkward apology, the _‘I should go,’_ the trip cut short, strained silence on the car ride back. Or worse, Sphinx makes him call a cab, or his dad comes to pick him up, and it’s back to the same routine as before, the green of Sphinx’s eyes making grand and depressing new waves in his art.

Smoker kisses him, hard, all the _please don’t_ and _please shut up_ he can muster behind it. Sphinx makes a surprised noise, and Smoker grabs the sides of his face, holding his head so that he can keep him there, moving his lips coaxingly against that hard, sarcastic mouth.

But Sphinx is still pulling away, so Smoker lets him go, at least secure this time that his fate is sealed without open-ended questions.

“What is this?” Sphinx asks, frowning, those green eyes watching him searchingly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk,” Smoker agrees, “But that’s not what this is. I’m sorry.” He moves to sit up, but Sphinx’s prosthetic catches his sleeve.

“Hang on. Come here.”

Heart in his throat, Smoker lays back down. This time, Sphinx kisses him.

It’s good. Their mouths are hot and open easily against the other, tongues emerging to taste and feel. Smoker surges forward to claim the kiss more thoroughly, deepen it, and Sphinx yields until it is his turn to take. Smoker gets lost in it, a rush of heady closeness and the cinnamon-wine taste of Sphinx. 

Sphinx shifts to his knees, pushing Smoker onto his back and down into the mattress with his upper body. It gives Smoker such a thrill, to be beneath him, to feel his weight over him. He runs his hands down Sphinx’s back, and Sphinx lets out a satisfied sigh. Smoker remembers that Sphinx does not have the luxury of touching his own body, and, after wetting his lips, he reaches down to press his hand between Sphinx’s legs.

He expects a pause, hesitation, maybe some shyness, but instead Sphinx shudders, letting out a soft groan against Smoker’s ear. Encouraged, Smoker palms him firmly, rubbing him through his jeans as he feels Sphinx’s erection take form.

Sphinx is kissing down his neck, spine curved like a drawn bow, as he rolls his hips into Smoker’s touches. Smoker dips his head to catch Sphinx’s mouth again, to seek out his tongue and moan against it. He runs his free hand down Sphinx’s back, his ribs, his hip, then down to the button and fly of his jeans. He stops touching him long enough to work them open, tugging them down by the belt loops to get them out of the way. Sphinx lets out a shaky breath, filled with anticipation.

“Here,” Smoker murmurs against his jaw, already cupping him, skin-to-skin, so that Sphinx is melting in his hand, “Lay on your side. Shh. There you go. Let me-”

He wraps his hand around him, snug and sure, and strokes him slowly from base to tip. Sphinx’s mouth is open, eyes heavily lidded as he leans in. Smoker presses a kiss to his temple and repeats the action, again and again, relishing in the way Sphinx meets his hand with slow thrusts of his hips.

Sphinx tries, more than once, to hurry him up, desperation coiled taut in his body, on his face, but Smoker is carefully unrelenting. He made up his mind about this at the very beginning.

“Fuck, Smoker, please,” Sphinx groans, “I’m dying.”

“You’re not,” Smoker murmurs, “Relax. We’ll get you there.”

Hearing his own words, the foreign certainty in his voice as he forces Sphinx to match the pace set by his own hand, is enough that Smoker is unbearably aroused himself. He ignores it, carefully setting his needs aside for the moment, so that he can focus.

Sphinx is beginning to leak from his tip, the wetness aiding in the slide of Smoker’s hand up and down his cock. He lets his thumb glide over the head, coaxing more of it out, using the slick texture to rub the sensitive flesh in smooth motions. Sphinx’s breath stutters, his face buried against Smoker’s neck, burning up.

It’s almost too much, having him like this, quite literally in the palm of his hand. Sphinx is trembling from the effort of keeping his thrusts in check, trying to drive himself into Smoker’s hand at just the right times to feel the most pressure squeezing around him.

“That’s it,” Smoker soothes, never once changing pace, “I’ve got you.”

Sphinx lets out a rough breath as his cock spasms. Come spills across Smoker’s hand, staining his shirt and the sheets on the mattress. Smoker strokes him through his orgasm, wringing every drop of pleasure out of him until the tension drains from Sphinx. He flops down against the mattress, boneless and panting.

Smoker looks down at his own hand, at the material proof of what he has wrought from Sphinx. He brings it to his mouth and sticks his tongue out to taste it. Sphinx makes a face.

“Would you stop?”

“Sorry, I was curious,” Smoker says, and wipes his hand on his already ruined shirt.

Their eyes meet, and Smoker feels his cheeks flush. Sphinx looks resigned, but not in the soul-crushing way he usually does.

“I didn’t plan this, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Smoker catches himself blurting.

“You’re not capable of planning,” Sphinx says, not too unkindly. “I didn’t think that.” 

He squirms closer, nudging Smoker’s chin with his forehead.

“Let me see you touch yourself,” he says. “I’d give you a hand, but. Well.”

Smoker’s blush creeps to his forehead and ears.

“Sphinx, that’s-”

“My semen is on your shirt, my friend. I really don’t want to hear it.”

Smoker squeezes his eyes shut, mentally preparing himself. Then he unbuttons his jeans and tugs them down enough that he can free his stil-prominent erection from them. Sphinx cranes his neck so that he can breathe hotly in Smoker’s ear, licking the shell.

“Take it,” he murmurs, “Like you did to me. Slow.”

Smoker exhales sharply. He can’t do anything except exactly what Sphinx has asked. He whimpers, tilting his head back to seek out Sphinx’s mouth. Sphinx obliges, prying him open and kissing him deeply as Smoker jerks himself off.

They keep on like that for awhile, the wet sound of their mouths and of Smoker’s cock, but Sphinx eventually breaks the kiss and bows his head so he can watch with unveiled interest.

“Do you know,” Sphinx begins quietly as Smoker squirms. He interrupts himself to say, “- Slow down. There. Steady, like that - Do you know, after everything, this isn’t even the most vulnerable I’ve seen you? Your art, when you first came to the Fourth. Honestly, it just feels like another day with Smoker.”

Sphinx laughs a little, and it makes Smoker’s cock jolt. 

“Maybe if you weren’t always baring your soul it wouldn’t be like this. Maybe I would even be surprised.”

Smoker moans softly, tightening his grip, and Sphinx cuts him off again. “Don’t. There you go.”

“Sphinx-”

“Fair’s fair. Don’t dish what you can’t take. Do you know how much I enjoy being mean to you?”

Smoker turns his face against the sheets to hide a desperate little cry.

“Guess I’m not the only one who enjoys it.”

And, as though in affirmation of every word Sphinx has said, Smoker comes hard, contributing to the mess on the sheets. Sphinx scoots back enough to avoid getting it on his clothes, watching with a neutral expression. After bearing witness to each jolt of Smoker’s cock, he raises his forest-green eyes to meet Smoker’s. Smoker feels like he might burn up on the spot.

“You okay?” Sphinx asks, a little more gentle than before.

Smoker nods, not able to find his voice just yet. Sphinx presses their foreheads together. As usual, it’s hard for Smoker to tell where the game begins and ends. He is beginning to wonder if even Sphinx knows.

“I need a cigarette,” Smoker mumbles pathetically. Sphinx laughs and sits up, finding the pack and lighter sitting on the hearth. 

They both light up and adjust their clothes back into some semblance of modesty. 

There is a pleasant languor in everything they do for the rest of the day. They pull the soiled sheets off the mattress and lie on it bare, cranking up the radio and drowning in the sound. When it’s time to sleep, they mutually curl in on each other, sharing a pillow and a blanket.

-

Monday morning wakes Smoker up with sunlight on his closed eyelids. The heat of Sphinx’s chest, which he is pressed against, wards off any chill that might be in the air. Smoker looks up at Sphinx, at the line of his jaw and chin. He’s not sure what the future holds for them, if anything, but he realizes he would like this to continue for as long as Sphinx will allow it. 

They don’t talk about it just yet, like words might break the tentative spell they’ve woven between one another. They remake the beds and run the soiled sheets through the laundry, and push the furniture back to its assigned place. 

Sphinx helps him onto the seat in the shower. Smoker catches him by the shirt when he turns to leave, and they have occasion to touch each other once more before their trip comes to an end.

The drive back seems painfully shorter than the drive there. Sphinx pulls up to the curb outside of Smoker’s apartment and puts the car in park.

Smoker takes a breath.

“I know you like to leave things unsaid, and you think I talk too much. But I don’t want this to be something we just bury.”

Sphinx sits back a little further in his seat, pensive. 

“I’m no good for things like this, Smoker. I barely know what I’m doing.”

“You think I do? I’m not asking for - I don’t need your commitment, or even too much of your time. But see me again. Soon. This weekend. Please? And if it’s not there, then fine, but if it is…”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Friday night, come over. I’ll make you dinner.”

“I-”

“Well, dinner will be there whether you show up or not. So if I’m sitting alone at the table while the food gets cold, that’s the depressing image you’ll have to live with for the rest of your days.”

“You’re already a depressing image all by yourself,” Sphinx says, but Smoker can see he’s conceded.

“Sure, so don’t make it worse. Can you get my wheelchair for me?”

Sphinx does not walk him to the door, but as Smoker wheels away, he calls over his shoulder, “Tell the kid I said hey.”

-

Smoker naps until late afternoon. He buries his face in his pillow and imagines he can smell Sphinx there. The buzz of his phone pulls him from his thoughts.

“Hello?”

“Hey buddy. How’d it go?” Smoker closes his eyes and wills the images of exactly how it went to go away, at least while he’s on the phone with his father.

“Pretty good. I think he’ll be okay.”

“That’s great. Really good. Did you have fun?”

“It was okay, yeah.”

“Alright. Uh. Yeah, that’s great. Well, I’ll let you go, then-”

“Dad?”

There is a startled pause.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for looking out for him.”

“Oh. Uh. I-”

“Talk to you later.”

Smoker hangs up quickly, cutting off a conversation before it can begin. He rolls onto his back and watches the ceiling, breathes deep, lights a cigarette.


End file.
